


One Night in Tokyo

by JK Ashavah (ashavah)



Category: MASH (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashavah/pseuds/JK%20Ashavah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting in a Tokyo bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in Tokyo

**Author's Note:**

> It's all down to blue, who several months ago gave me a fic prompt for Jack, Margaret, and martini. Thanks also to my sister, as always, for her encouragement.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Torchwood belongs to Russell T Davies, BBC Wales, and BBC Worldwide. M*A*S*H belongs to 20th Century Fox, Richard Hooker, and Ring Lardner and Robert Altman. None of it belongs to me, and I'm not making any money, just some fun!

"Martini, please."

The voice is gently melodious. Curiosity makes Margaret stop contemplating the depths of her Scotch glass long enough to spare a glance at the martini-drinker as he slides onto the empty barstool next to her. The first thing she notices is what he's wearing: his accent's American, but his uniform's the crisp dark blue dress tunic of the RAF. Her eyes stay on him as he takes off his cap and tosses it down onto the bar. The second thing she notices is that he's good-looking. Extremely good-looking. He's got slightly wavy dark hair brushed back from his forehead; it's still neat even though he's just taken off his cap. His nose is long and straight; his profile is classically handsome, with a strong, smooth jawline. Put together, it's a really nice picture.

As if he senses her eyes on him, he looks across at her. She adds clear blue eyes and a great smile to her mental list.

He nods to the bartender.

"And get the major another of whatever she's having."

She arches an eyebrow as he looks back across to her.

"That's awfully generous when I don't even know your name -" her eyes go to the insignia on his shoulders "- captain." She studies the uniform a little closer now, and she can't help noticing the broad shoulders beneath it. She recognises the little insignia on his chest; it's an embroidered 'RAF' topped by a crown and flanked by wings. She's seen enough British uniforms to know what that means. He's a pilot. The ribbons beneath the pilot's wings say he flew in the Second World War. He looks the right age for it; she'd guess he's thirty-five, maybe a little older. She recognises one of the British gallantry awards, a little rectangle of ribbon striped in purple and white, though she can't remember its name. She makes no attempt to hide that she's impressed as her gaze flicks along his chest and back up to his face.

"Guilty as charged." His laugh's just as charming as his smile. "Jack Harkness, currently of 77 Squadron, RAAF." The hand he holds out to her is large next to her own slender but strong one. As she takes his hand and meets his gaze, she notes that his handshake is firm.

She drains her glass as the bartender delivers first the captain's martini, then her replacement Scotch. She studies Harkness with just a hint of a smile.

"Margaret Houlihan, 4077th MASH." She pauses for a moment and picks up her new drink. She takes a sip, and looks down into it. But she doesn't look away from him for long and she's still smiling when she looks back at him. "For the record, I don’t mind." In some circumstances, she _would_ mind. She's told plenty of men who want to buy her a drink exactly what they can do with their flirtation. But here, now, from him, she finds that she really doesn't mind in the slightest.

Captain Harkness tastes his martini, pauses in consideration for a moment, then nods. She's seen that look of appraisal given to more martinis than she can count. He puts down the glass and turns to face her, one elbow leaning on the bar. His blue eyes study her carefully.

She finds that she doesn't object to that, either. Far from it, in fact. The smile on his face tells her that he likes what he sees just as much as she does. Pleased, she picks up her drink and turns on her stool so that she's facing him, as well.

"That's not an Australian accent," she says, a hint of a smile teasing him. She takes a moment to look him up and down again. "And that's _not_ an American uniform."

He lets out another of those musical laughs.

"You know Korea, Major," he says, and she gets another look at that grin of his. "You're lucky if you wind up anywhere near your own country's forces." He shrugs. "The RAF decided to lend a few of its hotshots to the Aussies."

"And they sent you?" It's part joke, part genuine curiosity. After all, that ribbon on his chest says he can't be too bad at what he does.

He doesn't seem to take any offence at that; he chuckles, eyes glittering with amusement. There's something terribly compelling about his eyes. She's in no way sure what it is, but there's something that makes them stand out. She doesn't normally think in terms of the depth of someone's eyes, but she finds she does with him. Even when he's laughing and it lights up his face, there's just a suggestion of untold depths in those blue, blue eyes.

"Don't know what came over them." He picks up his drink and takes a sip, gaze still fixed on her face, as though he's oblivious to her scrutiny. "I think they might have been trying to get rid of me." He sets the glass back down on the bar, and the fingers of his right hand tap an idle pattern on the wood beneath his arm.

"What would make you think that?" she asks. There's a hint of the rogue about him, she's got to admit. Something in that almost audacious smile, maybe. Or something in the way his whole attitude oozes casualness, from the elbow on the bar to the way he shrugs. She's found that most of the best pilots she's met have that air about them. Perhaps it takes a bit of a reckless attitude to be able to succeed up there in the wide blue skies.

"Just a wild guess." One side of his mouth lifts, making his smile lopsided for a moment. She finds herself wondering if it's because he's so attractive that she finds herself so pleased to be the focus of all his attention, or whether it's the gallantry award on his chest or that carefree way he talks or just the fact that she's having a hard time taking her eyes off him. Or that he's coolly confident under her gaze, with no hint of discomfort, even though she knows she's staring. 

There's a long silence while they both just watch each other, each smiling their own private little smile, neither apparently wanting to look away.

The captain breaks it first.

"So, are you in Tokyo for fun, Major Houlihan, or for something more serious?" He picks up his glass again and raises his eyebrows at her over its rim. There's just the right inflection on the word 'fun' to make her decide that it doesn't matter why she's so compelled by him. Some things shouldn't be questioned. A man this good-looking with eyes just for her is one of them.

"Just Margaret, please," she replies, letting her lips curve into an answering smile. "I'm here for a medical conference." She leans forward just a little. "But that doesn't mean I'd object to some fun." She watches him an instant longer, then looks away coyly and takes a sip of Scotch. But she still can't seem to keep looking away, and her eyes go back to his face before long.

He studies her for a long moment without saying anything. She's a little surprised when he raises the martini glass to his lips and drains it with a long gulp. He somehow manages to make it look refined, unlike some other people she knows.

He sets the glass down on the bar again, with a certain sort of finality to the gesture. He slips off his stool as though he's about to walk away, but he doesn't. Instead he turns and leans towards her, one hand held out enticingly, those intriguing eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Tell me, then, Margaret," he says, "do you dance?"

She sets her own drink down and places her hand in his. Once again, she feels his strong, large hand close around hers.

"It just so happens I do," she says, and she stops resisting the urge to stare into his eyes as she feels herself pulled gently to her feet. When he rests a hand on her waist to guide her across the room, the touch feels warmer than it should through her Class A uniform. They pause when they reach the dance floor. His hand slides around her waist as he turns to face her. Her fingers trail along his sleeve to rest on his arm as they take up their positions. He holds her just a little closer than she thought he would for a first dance.

As they start to waltz, he leans forward to murmur in her ear, breath warm on her neck.

"I think we're going to have a lot of fun tonight, Margaret."

She can't help agreeing.


End file.
